


Aisle 6 Remix

by somonastic



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, strangers to friends to lovers who were supposed to be enemies but fuck it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-03-04 21:19:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18820936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somonastic/pseuds/somonastic
Summary: I feel like….someone’s watching me.Eve looks up from the two flimsy boxes in her hands (microwave stroganoff and frozen gluten-free shepherd’s pie) to see that someone was indeed looking intensely her way. A woman stands a few feet away, cart halted, staring right at her. Young, sickly pale, hair in disarray, clung sweaty to her forehead.Eve figures she should probably address this situation.|| One overthinking gay's remix of the best queer spy vs spy romance on film, if bits of Season 1 were smushed with bits of Season 2 and it all started with a meetcute in a grocery aisle.





	1. Knife me, rob me, creep up in my sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> || In this universe, here's where it begins. It's a good thing Eve's a terrible cook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/68806783@N00/47812179922/in/album-72157691465196233/)  
>  _And take a look around the room_  
>  _Love comes wearing disguises_  
>  _How to go about and choose?_  
>  _Break it down by shapes and sizes_  
>  _I'm a man who's got very specific taste_  
>     
> \- SAINT MOTEL | You're just my type
> 
> -_-_-_-

_I feel like….someone’s watching me._

Eve looks up from the two flimsy boxes in her hands (microwave stroganoff and frozen gluten-free shepherd’s pie) to see that someone is indeed looking intensely her way. A woman stands a few feet away, cart halted, staring right at her. Young, sickly pale, hair in disarray, clung sweaty to her forehead.

Eve figures she should probably address this situation.

 “Are you okay..?” she says, returning both boxes and moving a bit closer to the stranger, while a man who’d been standing nearby pulls a microwave lasagna for one from the freezer and shuffles away down the aisle awkwardly.

The woman’s still looking at her without saying anything, though her eyes widen minutely and she visibly swallows with what seems like alarm. Eve tries again.

“Hey, do you...do you need something, am I blocking you—” Eve pauses when she takes in the woman more clearly.

Three angry red scrapes at the side of her brow, sunken sallow below the eyes, cheeks gaunt. Some nicely applied blush, but clearly dissonant to her haggard appearance and unsteady stance. One hand grips white-knuckled to the shopping cart handle and the other is fisted nervously into the fabric over her midsection. Eve feels a light chill.

She steps forward until she’s right before the woman and whispers quickly, “Look, are you in trouble? Do you need help? You don’t look great...”

Finally, focus flashes back into the woman’s eyes and her expression rearranges into urgency, fear.

“Yes. Yes, please, I am being chased. I can’t trust authorities, but please, I’m tired—I’m so tired and I can’t keep going. I’ve been running for days, I need someone to help me.” She takes Eve’s hands shakily and grips with desperation. “I have nowhere to go.”

There’s pleading and a tremble in her voice and when Eve looks down she sees just a bit of red-brown under the woman’s nails. Obviously, the situation is suspicious. _This is a complete stranger. I’m a complete stranger. One of us could easily be a full-on creep just waiting for somebody easy and I know it’s not me so this is some serious gambling._ She feels a strange conviction that this woman really does need her, needs Eve specifically, even as her gut reverberates danger. She looks back at those sad eyes. _Shit._ She makes a decision.

“Okay,” Eve says. “Okay walk behind me and look normal. I mean, don’t look like you’re _trying_ to look normal just—no it’s fine just uh, here let’s just walk.”

She tugs loose the chunky scarf from around her neck and loops it messily around the other woman’s neck, adjusting it to cover most of the lower half of her face. The girl raises her eyebrows but lets herself be swaddled into the woolen tangle. Eve inspects her for a moment and then nods decisively, locking eyes.

Huddled close, they walk somewhat stiff but even-paced down the aisle, abandoning both their carts. Eve’s hands are in her coat pockets and the woman at her side threads a hand quietly through the crook of Eve’s arm as they turn down another aisle, scooting between the registers—Eve gives the scruffy teen cashier a pursed smile here, in acknowledgment—and through the sliding doors onto the street.

—————

They keep a quick pace, Eve navigating them through a dense crowd of crossing pedestrians, taking a shortcut through an outdoor market and a small neighborhood park. Having walked maybe five blocks or so from the shop in concentrated silence, Eve pauses to look keenly around them, eyes searching for any signs of being watched or tailed. _Dog walk, couple kids kicking a can around, guy scratching his beer gut on the corner. No one in earshot._ Finding nothing, she exhales in relief. Letting the tension out of her shoulders a bit, she turns to her companion.

“Do you see anyone you recognize around?” she asks.

The other woman surveys their surroundings as well with nervous eyes before shaking her head no.

“Cool,” Eve says. She takes half a minute to consider their options. _Seems safe, no one followed. No one we can see at least. Need to get off the streets, no authorities, nobody who’ll ask questions. Somewhere we can talk. Can’t exactly chat about mysterious threatening pursuit outside in the middle of the afternoon, not without catching the attention of any couples strolling by with a pram._ She looks sideways at the woman clutching her side again. _She’s injured, probably needs attention._

“I’m going to take you home, okay? You look like you probably shouldn’t be walking much longer. My place is nearby. We’ll double back a couple blocks that way and then you can have a sit and you can explain to me what’s going on.”

The girl nods. “Thank you, thank you so much for doing this.”

Eve guides them in concentrated silence again to the stoop of her house, unlocks the door and hurries them in. Once they’re through the threshold with the door closed and locked, Eve spins around and smiles genially at her unexpected guest.

“You’re not planning to stab me by the way, right?”

Something that might be amusement flashes across the stranger’s tired eyes for less than an instant before she responds.

“I’m sorry?”

“You know, knife me, rob me, creep up in my sleep and choke me. I believe you need help and I want to help you. But I fully realize it’s pretty… unconventional to take in a stranger without any kind of assurance they’re not going to poison you and throw you in a blender right? Thought I’d ask at least, just to check.”

The stranger smiles a little.

“I’m really not in the best of shape to do any of those things, am I?” she says lightly before fixing Eve with a deeply earnest look. “I know this is a lot to put on someone who’s never met me before, believe me I do. I am so, _so_ grateful to you for helping me when I’m about to collapse with exhaustion and have no one to turn to. You’ve been so kind.”

She pauses timidly, pulling the faded cardigan that’s slipped down one side back over her shoulder. She looks so tired.

“It’s… it’s much more than most people would go out of their way to do. I can tell you’re really a special person and… I would never do anything to betray your trust.”

_She really does look rough._ Eve studies her guest once more, looking her over from disheveled hair to scuffed white crocs. She feels an irrational notion that a cold, wet, stray dog has wandered to her looking for shelter from a storm. A very polite dog. It’s a dick thing to do to turn away a dog with nowhere to go.

“Fair enough.” Eve says finally. “I’m not secretly a murderer either, just so you know. So it looks like we’re okay. What’s your name, then? I didn’t get a chance to properly ask you.”

The woman smiles gratefully. “I’m Julie. Julie Horowitz. How about you, what’s yours?”

“Eve. Eve Polastri. So nice to meet you, Julie.” She extends a hand for Julie to shake.

Julie grins and takes it. “You too, Eve, you’ve no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When there's loving in the air_  
>  _Don't fight it, just keep breathing_  
>  _I can't help myself but stare_  
>  _Double check for double meanings_  
>  _I'm a man who's got very specific taste_  
>   
>  \- SAINT MOTEL | You're just my type
> 
> -_-_-_-
> 
> || Hello! Thank you for reading :] I've lurked AO3 for years, fanfiction.net before that, personal fansites and webrings before that, but y'know, I've never actually posted a fic before. Weird, huh? I've jotted out bits here and there but never posted. So thanks for joining me on this journey! Hope you enjoy.
> 
>    
>  **Writer's sticky notes:**
> 
> • I am not British. Hopefully various cultural errors I inevitably make aren't too jarring, but feel free to point things out to me as we go  
> • Originally was shooting for a short fic, but I think it's gonna be longer than anticipated  
> • Don't bring alarmed sweaty strangers from the grocery round to your home, unless they are hot and charismatic
> 
> I would love to hear anything from you! My cat won't tell me any of her opinions on this. She's very withholding. Drop me a comment, or if you feeling like pinging me elsewhere, there's places in my profile. Have a nice day


	2. Carefully practiced vulnerability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> || Tips for making a new friend: try having a light conversation to get to know each other over a shared snack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So btw, I’m a very extra gay who enjoys making little graphics so I did decide on a whim to make chapter graphics. I'll be using them in my update posts over on [my tumblr](https://somonastic.tumblr.com/), and they'll also live [ here on flickr](https://www.flickr.com/photos/68806783@N00/sets/72157691465196233). I hope someone enjoys these but if not who am I kidding I did it for me.  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/68806783@N00/40920405293/in/album-72157691465196233/)  
>   
>  _Oh go ahead and lie to me_  
>  _You could say anything_  
>  _Small talk will be just fine_  
>  _Your voice is everything_  
>  _We owe it to love_  
>  _And it all depends on you_  
>   
>  \- FROU FROU | Hear me out  
> -_-_-_-

The fact that there’s a chicken roving the kitchen is pretty odd, but not a dealbreaker. Could be worse.  _ At least it’s not plastered in heavy crucifixes or stuffed to the ceiling with glass-eyed creepy little dolls.  _ Villanelle shudders.  _ Eugh. _

She’s found herself in the modest house of an easily trusting middle-aged Asian woman with amazing hair — incredible, really — fever rising, half-delirious with the pain of an unmedicated hole in her side, plugged up with a soaked through bandage, ready to let her body give out.

Only a half hour ago she’d been leaning against a grocery cart, primed to put on her best pretty, pleading, helpless look and approach the man she’d scoped out as her next target. He’d made eye contact with her, looked away briefly, then looked back, giving her a nervous twitch of a smile.  _ Gross.  _ She’d been confident she could sway this one, when from nowhere, an implausibly striking woman turned the corner into the aisle and parked her cart near the unappealing man, cracking a freezer door open to blankly review its cardboard contents.

Villanelle was unprepared. All she could do was stare and stare at this unexpected drably dressed grocery store goddess.  _ That HAIR. Where did this hair come from, even?  _ Even when the woman noticed her unabashed gawk, Villanelle couldn’t reboot her brain fast enough to school her expression into something less painfully obvious. She watched, dream-like, as the woman in her frumpy blue coat came towards her and asked her something.  _ Shit what?  _ Villanelle’s brain was stuck at 80% buffering and the woman was staring back now and still coming closer. 

“Do you need help?” she heard and managed, lucid enough again, to snatch that lifeline.

“Yes,” she blurted, thinking quickly. She spun the woman a few brief vague lies, layered imploring into her nice English-accented voice, making sure to quiver a little to be thorough. 

The woman seemed to be studying her, probably considering whether to believe her or not, so Villanelle cooly sized her pretty mark up in return, easily maintaining her convincing outer performance while waiting observantly. 

This woman was a bit shorter than herself, petite, nicely matured. Beautiful but hidden in hideous clothes, a criminal shame. Didn’t seem terribly alert, and not even particularly cautious, more intrigued maybe than suspicious. That was fine. Villanelle, though not her usual sleek, impeccable self, was always intriguing, and usually it charmed, startled, terrified people in turns, whatever she needed. Like a wonderfully honed weapon.  _ It’s maybe the shittiest I’ve ever looked and felt, top three for sure, but still got it.  _ She was pretty confident she had this woman just about hooked, which was great because her shit knife wound was stinging like a fuck on fire.

Villanelle was correct as usual and she left with this woman, hand looped pleasantly through her arm, which she either didn’t notice or didn’t apparently mind. It distracted a bit from her heavy weariness and her increasingly labored breaths heating the nest of her borrowed scarf. 

So here she is now, seated on Eve’s couch, swathed in about five plush mismatched blankets Eve had manifested from somewhere, with a steaming tea set before her on the coffee table. So far, Eve was proving a delightful mark to have fastened herself to.

“Do you want something to eat?” Eve says. “I have uh… part of a leftover croissant from this morning, or chocolate cereal. Cake?”

_ Oh, absolutely hell yes.  _

“Thank you Eve, cake would be wonderful, gosh.”

“Okay, it’s lemon drizzle, is that alright?”

_ The fuck?? Incredible.  _

“Lovely!” she chirps. Eve nods and heads back toward the kitchen. Villanelle takes her warm cup from the table and brings it to her lips. 

_ Hmrrg.  _ She isn’t enthused about tea generally, except done up very nice with sweets and porcelain and everything, but the warmth is good.  _ Leaf juice. I’d shove both fists up a shark for hard liquor right now. _

Eve returns with three quarters of a store-bought lemon drizzle in its plastic packaging, two plates, and two forks. Villanelle quirks a brow. 

“Haven’t had dinner yet,” Eve explains. “God, I’m starving.”

She piles both plates with a huge portion of cake before dropping into the armchair across from Villanelle. She doesn’t wait to begin shoveling lemony forkfuls into her mouth, closing her eyes and groaning gutturally in appreciation. It’s involuntarily arousing.

“So,” Eve starts, through a definitely full mouth. “Julie. Tell me all about it. Who is after you? Where are you from? Why no authorities?”

Reasonable questions. Villanelle starts in on her own cake, because she is way more fucking famished than Eve could possibly be and because it gives her a minute to think. She feels a little more human with some cake to appease her stomach. She swallows.

“They won’t help me. They’ll lock me up.” she says. 

Eve’s interest is clearly piqued by this. She stops chewing.

“Why would police want to arrest you?” 

Villanelle deflects her eyes, as though this brings up terrible memories. 

“I’m a criminal…”

Eve places her plate back on the table.

“What have you done?” she asks, eyes focused, voice low. 

Villanelle meets Eve’s eyes again, looking her most remorseful.

“I got caught up with... very bad men.” Villanelle says, setting her plate on the table as well. “Dealers. Thugs — angry men, ruthless. My parents died when I was fifteen, I’ve been on my own since. I’ve been surviving, but I had one bad streak too many. No family, no friends, really. I didn’t know where to turn, so I turned to carrying for these men. I’d seen them around my town.”

Villanelle pauses, takes a deep breath. It’s hard for Julie to talk about this. It’s been so hard, as a poor orphan, reduced to unglamorous street crime. No one to care for her as more than a tool. No one to save her.

Eve is drinking in every word, seeming to swirl it around her brain, savoring the lies Villanelle is devising just for her, tasting the notes of her carefully practiced vulnerability. She looks like she was hoping Villanelle would be entrenched in something grisly like this. Awful for a nice person to hope for, which is enjoyable. Like it is a fun lurid game they are playing. Villanelle gives her more.

She summons tears, holds them tenuously just at the edge of her eyelids. 

“I’ve been working for them, on and off, for almost a year. I hate it. I know it’s not right, I didn’t want to be doing any of it. I  _ don’t _ want to, I-I I don’t — ”

Here she lets a few tears go, to trail down her cheeks, which she knows are puffy red. She supplements this with a choked sob, like she’s struggling to go on.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Eve. I tried to get out. I told them I wasn’t going to keep being their mule. They didn’t like that. They don’t like their assets to drop out by choice. I fled but they followed. They’ve been following me for weeks, they are everywhere I go. I didn’t know they were tied to a bigger organization, I don’t know how big. But they have many resources. They are powerful.”

Villanelle pauses, wincing, in genuine pain. She’d gotten caught up in this fun fiction and almost forgot her weakening state.  _ It hurts. Fuck it hurts.  _ She feels fresh blood just beginning to seep from the hole. Eve’s looking at her with concern.  _ Pain's getting worse. I need medication. Need to wrap this up. _

“They cornered me last night, two men I don’t know. People who tie up loose ends. One man I was able to lose, but his friend found me in an alley. He caught up to me and pushed me into a rubbish heap and tried to strangle me.” 

Eve gasps softly. Villanelle’s wound burns hot.

“I was struggling and struggling, I couldn’t shove him off. I could barely see, I was feeling around for a bottle maybe or a rock, something to hit him, and I grabbed something pointy — an old knitting needle. He pushed his arm to my throat and pulled out a knife, jammed it into my side. It hurt, it hurt so much but I bit his wrist as hard as I could and he fell onto me. The needle went right through his throat.”

“Cool…” Eve says under her breath.

_ Cool?  _ She seems sheepish as soon as she says it, as though she hadn’t meant to. She might be about to backtrack or apologize but Villanelle doesn’t have time for that, her body is radiating with pain and cold with sweat.

“He was dead immediately,” she says before Eve can form words. “He fell and he was bleeding everywhere, my god, there was so much blood I… I’ve never seen so much blood before.” 

She figures this is almost enough material for Eve to be satisfied for now. She strains to bite down a pained groan as she pushes blankets to the side and lifts the hem of her shirt to show Eve her bandage, barely hanging in there, blooming anew with blood. She has Eve’s attention completely. 

“I was scared. I was bleeding so much too and I didn’t know what to do so I got out of there as fast as I could. I broke in through the back of a corner shop off the alley, smashed through the glass door. I just grabbed everything I could. Bandages, alcohol, some dishrags. I got the knife out, almost blacked out. Cleaned it all as much as I could and got a bandage on it. There was a laundromat attached to the shop so I went in and grabbed some clothes from a bin to change into, mine were all bloody.   
  
“I lay down on a bench and sort of… dozed off. Woke up maybe a few hours later? It was early morning so I took some change and walked out and kept walking, no idea where I was going. When I saw a bus at a stop I got on, fell asleep in the back. I got off somewhere and walked around some more. I don’t know anyone here. I got hungry and wandered into a shop and that’s when… you saw me.” 

Villanelle feels herself tipping slowly to the side as she finishes her story.  _ Not the greatest, but not the worst for being a hair’s breadth from death.  _ If Villanelle could feel sympathy, she’d probably feel sorry for the girl in this story. She waits for a reaction to what she’s just recounted. Eve stays quiet.  _ Come on, Eve. Eve, my performance was perfect, I’m a desperate bleeding orphan alone in the world I swear to god if you don’t throw me a bone right now _ _ — _

“Can I see it?” 

Villanelle blinks.  _ See it? You want to see it? _

“Um it's… it’s quite ugly, you don’t want to look. It’s starting to bleed again.”

“I don’t mind,” Eve says quickly. “I mean, if you’re okay with it of course. It’s a stab wound, it’s not going to be dainty. We’ll need to change your bandage so I’ll see it anyway.”

Puzzled, but ready to finally get some half-decent medical attention, Villanelle cedes and delicately peels back the grimy bandage, revealing her raw, angry gash. It stretches a little as she breathes, like an unsettling grimace, and the new blood is smeared messily all around it from where it gushed against the bandage. Eve doesn’t look away.

Eve gets up from the chair, kneels down before Villanelle, and leans close to the wound, fascinated. Trance-like, she raises a hand, hovers it over the bright red bloom, as though longing to touch it. Villanelle doesn’t breathe for a moment. 

Abruptly, Eve discards whatever spell she was under and looks up at Villanelle. Her eyes are soft and curious.

“That wound looks bad,” she says, supplying Villanelle with no new information. “We should clean it and close it up. Sounds like you’ve had a really shitty couple of days.”

And Villanelle has, she really has. So she wordlessly lets herself be led upstairs, thinking, knowing Eve did not actually press her fingertips to the wound but feeling somehow the ghost of that touch anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So how do I do normal_  
>  _The smile I fake_  
>  _The permanent wave of_  
>  _Cue cards and fix-it kits_  
>  _Can't you tell - I'm not myself_  
>   
>  \- FROU FROU | Hear me out  
>   
> -_-_-_-  
>    
> First off, thank you so, so much to everyone who gave Ch 1 a read, threw me a kudos, and especially to kind folks who left me a comment! It makes me so happy to see people enjoy this so far and to hear from you :] I love reading your comments, so have at it if you would like!  
>    
>  **To peeps who said they're hoping for more:**
> 
>   * What?? Thank you!! 
>   * Here's a little more, and a lot more is coming! Hooray! 
> 

> 
>    
>  **Author's sticky notes:**
> 
>   * POV switch ahoy! I don't know yet if I'll switch off between them evenly every chapter, but I think probably 
>   * Tentatively I'd like to drop updates weekly on Mondays. I'd love to post more frequently, but I've a very busy schedule for the foreseeable months. Why am I not allowed to just write fic all day? I shake my fist. This is biphobia. 
>   * You could make a fact-checker commentary track of this chapter that would just be someone saying “no, this did not happen, this is also a lie" every time Villanelle utters a sentence 
>   * Always have a bit of cake in your home, just in case someone unexpected drops by 
> 

> 
>   
> Shoutout to my beautiful partner K for reviewing, bouncing ideas, being cute, and generally making my wholeass life possible. Please check out [their tumblr](https://azaraih.tumblr.com/) for posts about their personal and our collaborative creative works, and their [insta](https://www.instagram.com/azaraih/) for pics of cool food and their cute face.  
>   
> Again, if you'd like to hit me up for any reason, I'm reachable at a bunch of internet spots, listed in my profile. @somonastic or just somonastic on Tumblr, Twitter, and IG. If you like this sort of thing, I tentatively plan to use my Tumblr update posts as a home for more of my misc thoughts on writing the chapter, stuff that happened in it, etc. But save it for after reading in case of spoilers, if you care. Have a nice day friend, and treat yourself to some cake (or other preferred treat of your choice).


	3. More of a tectonic movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> || Be patient when getting to know someone new: sometimes people won’t be so comfortable sharing certain things with you until you’ve earned their trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Happy end of Season 2. I have some wounds, some praise, some hopes, and some incorrect predictions after this season. But that’s a year from now, so here's something completely different.  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/68806783@N00/47939316648/in/album-72157691465196233/)  
>  _Better make sure_  
>  _Better make sure you're looking closely_  
>  _Before you fall into your swoon_  
>   
>  \- SILVERSUN PICKUPS | There's no secrets this year  
> -_-_-_-

The bathroom, luckily, is impressively stocked. That’s all Niko. He’s a five foot eleven boy scout with hearty face fur. Throughout their marriage, he’d been predictably prepared for all sorts of crises, from papercuts and minor scrapes, to the worst of what nonsense Eve seemed to keep getting herself into. 

Scanning the packed shelves, Eve finds a family-sized, blue-labeled bottle and holds it up it to Julie. The pills bounce around as she gives them a little inquisitive shake. 

“Ibuprofen? It’s extra strength.”

“God yes, thank you,” Julie smiles, eyes heavy.

Eve pinches and unscrews the cap off, passes the bottle. Julie rattles several tablets into her palm. It’s probably above the recommended dose but she’s thrown it dry down her throat before Eve can say a thing.  _ Wow. Metal.  _ She hobbles over to switch the faucet on for a second, cups her hand under the water and splashes it into her mouth in one swoop. A half-gulp, half-cough escapes her as she rubs her chin dry with her forearm. She turns to Eve.

“Thank you.  _ Phew… _ I… need a rest, I think.”

“Okay, um. Here?” Eve pats the narrow edge of her tub. “Not comfortable I know, but I should probably help you clean up before you go lie down.”

Julie compliantly lowers herself to be half-sitting, balancing against the tub, and waits as Eve returns to the shelves.

“Okay uh…” Eve looks back and forth across the stock of supplies for a moment, then turns back to Julie. “You know any first aid? This is my first stab wound, I’m afraid.” 

Julie grunts a little, shifting her weight to lift her shirt for them to inspect what they're working with. Eve’s eyes lock straight onto the bloody spot again, but she manages to look away quicker this time.  _ Is it rude to stare at someone’s stab wound?? Why do I want to stare at this gross stab so badly, Christ.  _

“I’m honored,” Julie laughs distractedly. “It's alright. I've done quite a bit of patching myself up. I'll tell you what to do and I think we’ll manage.”

She half smiles, half grimaces. Eve figures they've gotta go for it in any case.  _ Whatever I do can’t be worse than the actual stabbing, right? _

“Okay, so first we’ll need to get this bandage off.”

Eve nods and moves her hands closer.

“Ah, wash your hands first, though, please. And maybe put some gloves on. Blood germs, you know?”

Eve flushes.  _ Shit, of course, dumbass. Of course you should wash your hands, this is kindergarten stuff.  _

“Of course!” Eve chuckles. “Don’t wanna get any lemon drizzle in there right? Ha…”

Julie’s smile-grimace intensifies. 

After doing as Julie had requested, Eve kneels and returns to the task of carefully peeling back the soaked through bandage with gloved, tentative fingers. 

“Pull it low and slow,” Julie says patiently. “A bit at a time and keeping close to where you are peeling from. So it doesn’t yank anything.”

Eve is reminded of when Niko used to insist on removing labels so they could repurpose glass sauce jars. He was a natural at peeling them off steadily and efficiently, intact, and he’d tried to coach Eve to do the same. Labels hated her though and always decided to continually rip until she was left with a patchy, gummy jar (requiring a more thorough soaking and scraping later) and a small pile of embarrassing tiny shreds of label. Eventually Niko became the household’s de facto label extracter.

But with slightly more sense of responsibility to not aggravate the surface she’s peeling from now, Eve does her best to go carefully, gently. If she tugs a fine hair or two in the process, Julie doesn’t complain. 

Eve bites her lip in concentration and soon enough, the bandage is off. Pleased with her minor success, she looks back up to Julie’s face for further instruction. Her smile looks a bit less pained.

“Well done!” she says. “Told you you’d be fine. We should clean some of this blood off next. Got kind of everywhere. Probably no rescuing this shirt anymore, huh?”

“You could crop it?” Eve says, retrieving a fresh washcloth. 

Julie laughs. “Maybe! I do look good in crop tops.”

_ Probably not with a giant hole in your stomach.  _ Eve glances back at Julie while holding the cloth under the tap’s stream. Julie’s weight is on both her hands behind her, resting on the tub ledge, her angle now much breezier than a person with a blood-slick wound should look. She’s surveying the room vaguely, politely waiting. Out of context, she could easily look like she was just leaning against a wall, waiting for a friend.  _ Alright, so maybe you could still pull that off. Wish I were that relaxed. _

Julie catches Eve’s look and smiles friendly. Eve quickly turns back to the sink.  _ Awesome, nothing makes you seem more like you’re creeping than making eye contact and looking away in panic. Lucky she didn’t get stabbed in the tit. _

“Use cold water. It’ll be easier to get the staining out later.”

Eve switches the hot handle off and turns the cold up a bit until the cloth is heavier and lightly chilled. She wrings the cloth out, scrunches down onto the floor again. Julie’s eyes are on her as she leans forward and softly, carefully begins to dab at the blood with the wet cloth.  

“I think the blood looks worse than it is. Spreads around a lot under the bandage, can’t drip everywhere like it wants, just oozes outward. Like when you smoosh jelly out a sandwich.”

“You think about that when eating a jelly sandwich?” 

Julie grins. “Sure. You don’t?”

Eve thinks. “A little, maybe.” 

There’s something oddly relaxing about cleaning the red away bit by bit. It looks innately wrong somehow, seeing a good amount of blood at once. The lizard brain reminding, “Well that’s not right. That belongs on the inside.” Eve’s not particularly squeamish, but she wonders if she should feel less calm about mopping up someone else’s sticky red life juice.

“I used to pretend noodles were worms as a kid. Probably why I loved jjajangmyun so much.”

Julie’s eyes light up. “I still do it. It’s what makes noodles so great!”

Eve breathes a chuckle and smiles to herself. She’s dealt with most of the outer spread of blood, so she rearranges the cloth in her hand to a fresh spot to tackle the blood closest to the wound.  It takes her a few moments of sopping up to realize something odd about what she’s just revealed. She frowns.

“You alright?” Julie asks. 

Eve squints slightly in thought, still looking at the stab. “Ah, yeah I’m fine, just uh…”

“Just..?” Julie prompts.

“Is that… dental floss?”

Julie follows Eve’s gaze. The red-smeared spot where a knife had once been is puckered, angry. And where the torn sides of the slit meet, there is a row of small white stitches. 

“Oh. Yes, the convenience store didn’t exactly have suture thread, just some little repair sewing kits. I heard somewhere you can use dental floss in a pinch, it’s pretty strong. Just don’t use the minty stuff.” 

She says it jokingly, but Eve’s brain is still busy chewing.  _ She didn’t mention stitches before. She gets stabbed, she gets away, she breaks into a store… She pulls the knife  _ out _ of herself and manages to stay functional enough to clean, bandage,  _ and  _ stitch it? Without any help?  _

Eve cocks her head. She hadn’t noticed the little white hash marks earlier, despite how close she’d gotten, with the wet coating of blood. Some of the stitches are a little lopsided, but there’s an unmistakable competency there. A presence of mind Eve can’t imagine having after a frantic chase, a brutal struggle, a deep puncture.  _ That’s… a LOT for a normal person to accomplish alone.  _

“Yeah…” Eve says distantly. “Mint is gross…”

She meets Julie’s eyes and they seem to be regarding her. Something in them seems… calculating. Closed off? It’s a look Eve hasn’t seen on her before. Different from the sad pleading, the gratitude, the light jesting. It looks like it isn’t interested in Eve continuing this line of questioning. Eve looks away. 

“So,” she says, dabbing gently at the gash again, watching the red seep quickly in, spread. “How far did you run? Are you from around London?”

The look is gone and Julie’s back to watching Eve’s hands work. She's taking measured breaths, calm. Eve tries for the same.

“No, I've been living pretty far out from here. Paris, actually. I headed towards Amsterdam at first, made it to Brussels. But when goons kept popping up everywhere I went, I kind of stopped planning where I was going and just… reacted. Didn’t even realize I was  _ in  _ London at first.”

“That is pretty far… You traveled a ways then.”

“The travel part wasn’t too bad. They sent me out pretty frequently for, y’know,  _ work _ . My specialty. Frequent tourist with a special compartment in her luggage.”

She laughs wryly while Eve just nods.  _ Fought off a man with a knife. Stitched her own wound. Travels a lot. _

“No connections you can trust in any of those spots though?”

“Not really. Social life doesn't really exist for me. Just work and surviving. I don't… really know how to do friends at this point.” She sighs. “Not the easiest thing to let someone in when you've got a past, present, and maybe-future like mine, yea?”

The sad dog look is back. It feels as genuine as it did when Eve first let this girl into her home.  _ Was that hours ago? It feels longer. _

“I guess socializing for anyone is pretty awkward and exhausting enough, yeah,” Eve concedes. “Most of my friends in the past decade have been from my work, my husband, or my husband's work.”

Julie glances at Eve's face.

“You've a husband? I'm so sorry to intrude like this, it'll be a bit of a mess to try to explain, I’m sure…”

“Oh…” Eve hadn't even thought twice about mentioning Niko, forgetting, a little, that Julie knew next to nothing about Eve and her life. About as much as Eve knew about her.

“Oh, ah — sorry. We're not-it's…” Eve fumbles for words. “He doesn't live here anymore? He  _ is _ still my husband, technically, but… We're separated. Marriage purgatory.”

Julie bites her lip. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“It's fine. Could be worse. Could've been an explosion. Could have cursed each other out, choked each other, burned the house down.” Eve laughs. “But he doesn't really do explosions, not unless you really,  _ really _ push him.” 

Julie looks like she wonders how hard Eve did push him.

“It's been more of uh… a tectonic movement. That kind where the pieces grate against each other? Pressed together,  _ scraping _ on past each other, year after year. Pressure keeps building until — crack! — one of you heeds the warning signs finally and moves into your mate’s place for the foreseeable future.”

_ And that mate is actually a woman from work who probably sings her students songs and bakes sugar cookies daily and is impossibly perky. In both the personality and breast departments.  _ It’s tiring just thinking about Gemma.

Julie's look is unreadable, and she’s quietly thoughtful. With the skin finally blood-free, Eve gets up to find the larger wound dressing bandages she’d always thought were overkill but, well, looks like someone’s preparedness paid off once again.

“It happens.” 

“What does?” Eve says, pushing boxes and small bottles aside while trying not to nudge any of them off the shelf.

“Tectonic movement. It’s nobody’s fault. It just… happens. Force of nature.”

“Hm.”

He’d called her a force of nature, more than once. He’d said sometimes he couldn’t tell if she was the immovable object or the unstoppable force, or both. A box does fall to the floor and when she looks down, it’s the one she was looking for. She bends to pick it up.

“At least no one’s around putting their shoes up on the coffee table, leaving little messes around the place, huh?”

“I’m the shoes-on-table one, actually.”

“Well, at least no one’s around to nag you about it, right?”

“That’s true,” Eve agrees, wedging a finger in the unopened box to coax it open, then selecting a fresh bandage from inside.

She finishes placing the new bandage right where the old one used to be. It all looks clean and in order now. Like maybe Julie might have been in an unfortunate but hilarious sports accident, rather than a seedy back alley to-the-death wrestle.

“Well, we didn't kill you and it looks better than I found you. Cleaner anyway. Take that,  _ Mom _ , I’d make a great doctor after all.”

“Very nice! Much better, thank you.” Julie rocks her feet back flat on the floor and stands upright, wriggling her shoulders around to stretch.

Eve fetches some of her pajamas from the bedroom (the novelty fleecy kind, with a pattern of fat penguins skating around — a Christmas present from Niko’s mom or younger cousin or someone several years ago) and offers them to Julie as an un-bloodied change of clothes. 

She turns away while Julie changes into them, because she seems like she’s got it under control by herself and because Eve is  _ not  _ going to get caught staring anywhere in her guest’s direction while any state of undress is occuring.  _ Only so many misinterpreted looks before things get too weird.  _ The rustling of fleece stops and Julie clears her throat lightly. 

“Perfect fit,” she says as Eve turns around, holding her arms out as though modeling a new dress. “Love the penguins.”

“It’s very flattering.” 

Julie winks and it’s charming. “Fashion is all about the bold, you know?” 

_ I would not know.  _ It’s only banter, but Julie does look less of a doofus than Eve does in the penguins and it’s actually kind of a cute look.  _ Mrs. Polastri would be happy. Or Joasia. Secret Santa is bogus, no one remembers who their Santa was.  _

“Hey, you still hungry? Cake’s still there but maybe we should get something non-cake in us before we call it quits for tonight. I get sugar jitters if I only eat dessert.”

Julie perks up immediately, showing no signs of injury or exhaustion. “I'd love some food!”

“Great, same. I haven't really got non-cake on hand at the moment, but the late night curry a couple blocks down is killer  _ and _ they deliver. I promise I'm a real adult. If I'm expecting a guest I usually order the takeout  _ before  _ several hours past normal-person dinner.”

In all, it takes about twelve minutes for curry to arrive. When Eve opens the door, a bushy-haired teen grumbles that he’d been in the middle of studying for a calc exam. Eve swaps him the cash (plus tip) for the two hefty plastic bags he brought and tells him that’s why you shouldn’t wait until the last night to study.

Eve is again in the armchair, happy to be munching away, and so is Julie, it seems. Gupta’s is reliably delicious, spicy enough for her to feel cool but not to kill herself, and has her usual order down to a science now, which is a big plus in their favor. Eve sometimes wonders if they actually just set the food aside for her every night on the likely off-chance they could expect a late-night ring from her.

“This is extremely good,” Julie says, through vigorous chewing.

“Yeah, Mrs. Gupta says it’s all family recipes. Don’t even wonder in your head what the secret ingredients are when you’re in her place. She will know and she will never give you extra naan again.”

Julie nods, noting this advice duly for the future. She’s rewrapped herself in a couple of the blankets Eve had given her and looks perfectly content, ordinary. Eve tries again to picture her in darkness, drowning in garbage, stepping on crunching glass, stumbling into a shop restroom.  _ Stabbed a man through the throat with a knitting needle. No, bites the arm at her windpipe, the man falls onto the needle she’s holding, hard enough to pierce through his throat.  _

“Could you pass the palak, please?” Eve hands her the styrofoam container.

_ It’s not unheard of. Adrenaline gets people through a lot. Probably killing someone when you’re about to be killed. Finding nearby shelter, probably. Removing a knife and sewing the hole up… maybe.  _

“Eve?”

“Hrrm?” She remembers to chew again.

“I want to thank you again for being so generous with me. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t taken me here.”

Nothing Julie has said since she’d met her has sounded insincere. There are some holes and vagueries in her testimony, sure. But it’s not out of the ordinary for someone who’s undergone an abnormal amount of stress. 

It was a good thing Eve had found her when she had. You have to be pretty desperate to put yourself in the hands of strangers shopping in your average local grocery.  _ This one maybe especially. _ It was the closest place with real produce, but the patrons sometimes felt a little questionable. Not hostile, but kind of unfriendly.  _ Great snacks selection though. Need to remember to pick up more lychee gummies after work this week. Those ones I found in my desk are so stale. _

The look in the bathroom. Maybe Julie wanted to talk about her near-death altercation only so much in one night. Some cake, some first aid, and some blankets earn a finite amount of trust. They’re still strangers. Besides, Julie is at a disadvantage, being injured. Eve figures she could probably subdue her, only if it turned out she’d lied about not being a murderer, of course. 

“Of course.” Eve says. “I’m glad I found you. There are some real jerks and creeps out there, even around here probably.”

Julie nods, eyes bright. “Yes! It’s so hard to know who to trust. But I guess sometimes things just work out, huh? Sometimes you just know you’ve found a good one.”

Eve smiles. “Are you finished eating? I can stick all this in the fridge, take care of the dishes, and — oh.” She hadn’t thought about sleeping arrangements. “You should probably take the bed, you need to get some decent sleep. I can just spread some blankets out and sleep on that, not the first time I’ve fallen asleep on the floor next to the bed.” 

Usually it was six-drinks-Eve who gave up three feet from her destination. Eve kind of wishes she had a couple glasses in her after today's weird turn. 

“Oh, no no. I will sleep on the couch. I insist. I’ll be perfectly fine, you’ve done enough already and the wound’s settled down now.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.” Julie nods, already rearranging the blankets around her to lay lengthwise with the couch. 

“Alright then, if you’re sure.” Eve shrugs, closing up boxes and stacking dishes. “I’ll be just a sec.”

She balances everything in her arms from the coffee table to the kitchen, depositing the dirty dishes in the sink (this is the extent of what she’d meant by taking care of them), then sliding the takeout containers into the fridge after expertly pushing and tetris-ing its contents around to make adequate room.

Eve peeks from behind the kitchen island at Julie, sitting up, legs stretched before her on the couch, covered in a comical heap of blankets. She looks cozy, small. 

“I’ll go grab you some pillows,” Eve says as she passes through the living room and starts up the stairs. 

She looks at Niko’s side of the bed for only a moment before grabbing his pillows and making her way back to the living room. Julie accepts the pillows gratefully, setting them against the couch arm behind her and fluffing them to satisfaction. 

She and Eve both look at each other half-expectant, making, breaking, and re-making eye contact several times. Eve has a staredown with a jolly cartoon penguin on Julie’s left shoulder.

“So ah… goodnight? Let me know if you need anything? ...I’ll be upstairs?”

Julie slides down until she’s flat against the cushions and her head’s on the pillow. 

“Goodnight, Eve. Sleep well.”

Eve walks around switching the various lights off until finally, the only light is illuminating the staircase. The house looks same as it does every night she retires to bed. She can just barely see Julie’s form beneath the blankets on the couch, lit at the edges by window moonlight, and she can’t make out her face at all.

“You too,” Eve says into the dark. Makes her way up with quiet steps, like any other night, and at the top of the stairs she flips a switch, the yellow light disappearing in an instant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lay your head down, rest your feet_  
>  _I'll blow you kisses while you sleep_  
>  _And when I know you're safe and dreaming_  
>  _My escape plan's in full swing_  
>   
>  \- SILVERSUN PICKUPS | There's no secrets this year  
>   
> -_-_-_-  
>    
> Thank you for reading and for the lovely comments! That finale took me for a ride from start to finish. I'm feeling alright about it now personally, and am focusing on a lot of points I think are positives, but if you're feeling down/bewildered/adrift, I feel you friend. This fic wasn't created to fix anything in canon, just a thought experiment that grew from a kernel planted by Nice and Neat. We most likely won't be visiting Alaska, but I can promise Eve, Villanelle, and some domesticity in a house (plus other things) to come, if you like that sort of thing like I do. Hope you enjoy.  
>    
>  **Currently updates regularly on Mondays. Bookmark or check my tumblr if you'd like notifications :]**  
>     
>    
>  **Author's sticky notes:**
> 
>   * Late night curry that delivers is all I want in life, and the tragedy that I do not have this is the stuff Aeschylus was talking about all along 
>   * I want you all to know that I did buy frozen stroganoff and shepherd’s pie AND lemon drizzle the week I wrote these first couple chapters. I don’t even eat frozen dinners, I just felt like I should. For the writing? We also made curry soon after, which was a lot more satisfying. 
>   * I learned about peeling medical adhesives off "low and slow" through instructional writing I wrote at my old job while one of my clients was a certain huge company that you may not realize makes tons of medical supplies. This period of my career also forced me to sit at my desk, eating reheated leftovers while clicking through powerpoints (I always worked through lunch) featuring slide after slide of horrible nightmarish rashes. Our studio became fairly desensitized. 
>   * At one point my colleague informed a producer that we needed to send the client an inquiry to confirm whether or not an closeup image they had provided was depicting a rashy anus. Our beleaguered producer said, "Do I really have to?" To which my colleague responded, "Well, can YOU tell what it is?" The producer sighed deeply and left to make the call. 
>   * It's only rude to stare at someone's wound if you don't offer to help and feed them 
> 

> 
>   
> Thank you to my partner K for reviewing: Check out their [tumblr](https://azaraih.tumblr.com/) and their [insta](https://www.instagram.com/azaraih/)!  
>   
> See my profile for all the places I'm at, but for basics: @somonastic or just somonastic on Tumblr, Twitter, and IG. Have a nice day friend, and may your takeout always be speedy and delicious.


	4. Shapeless butt jiggling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> || Villanelle is nosy, judgmental, and incapable of ever just catching a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you like the title. I ran a bit behind this week, but enjoy this Tuesday evening offering.  
>   
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/68806783@N00/48004978331/in/album-72157691465196233/)
> 
>  _You've been known to obsess over the future_  
>  _Do you think you'll get away from the past?_  
>  _As you stone yourself just to make it through 'til midnight_  
>  _Consider what you might have found_  
>  _You think you've got a good thing now_  
>   
>  \- LUDO | Topeka  
> -_-_-_-

_Two doors to the outside: front, back, single deadlock on each. Several large windows in the living room, one latch at the top of each window sash. All screened, but easy to kick through, leading into a garden in the backyard. No bars or special locks anywhere._

It’s nine sixteen in the morning. As injured and worn out as Villanelle had been, slipping under borrowed blankets on a stranger’s couch last night, she had woken up on her own this morning, no prompting, to the house quiet and softly lit with early sun. Opening her eyes, lying still, she had detected no signs of Eve being up and about. _Hm. Not a morning person, I guess._ She’d swung her legs over, planted her feet on the floor, wriggling her toes awake, and tentatively risen from her makeshift bed. As she'd begun to stretch lightly with careful movements, testing the moderately improved condition of her side, limbs, muscles, joints, she’d heard a very faint string of soft snores drifting from an upstairs room. _Not very cautious, either. Heavy sleeper, probably._

So, Villanelle had decided to take this opportunity to study her surroundings, starting with the possible exits she’s now quickly committing to memory. Standing before the back door, she rolls a crick out of her shoulder, repeating her notes to herself, drawing a simple blueprint in her mind. _Two doors, front, back, deadlocks. Windows, unlatch, kick the screens out, get into the bushes..._

The chicken is still ambling about unconcerned with anything and Villanelle continues to refrain from giving it her attention. It’s minding its own business as well, pecking curiously at some imperceptible speck on the floorboards by the couch. The couch had been slightly uncomfortable, the cushion gaps felt even through the comforter Villanelle had laid beneath her for padding. She'd only vaguely noticed it in her exhaustion though, and hadn’t had the energy to rearrange her nest more comfortably.

Besides, the couch had been more of a strategic pick in any case. She’d slept on worse, and remaining in the living room, on the open concept ground floor of the house, nearer to the primary exits—that’s her safest bet for now. Better making do with a lumpy sofa a half dozen sprinting steps from a door than in a bed closed in on four sides with the potential to be locked in. Plus, the couch is conveniently near the kitchen and any santoku, cleavers, or even mildly sharp-tined forks held therein.

Satisfied with her options for speedy exits, Villanelle relaxes her muscles and brain again, padding quietly round to the kitchen. _Lot of spices. She cooks, maybe?_ She swaps a few of them around, slotting them into different spots. She finds the knife drawer easily enough and slides it quietly open, examining the contents. _Big chef knife, little chef knife, paring. Oo. Boning knife._ She lifts it gently from its resting place, turning it so its shine runs quickly along its slender swoop of a blade.

It’s fun working with this sort of blade, artful. You can feel the elegance of design in the way it slips into, through, flesh. Smooth, no resistance. It does what it’s meant to, and very well. Villanelle can appreciate that. Of course, she doesn’t go about carrying cooking knives on her, that would be silly. So she doesn’t typically get to enjoy using such a knife outside of kitchen tasks—deftly separating savory-scented ribs, cartilage, tracing delicately around bone. But it certainly can manage other jobs as well, in a pinch, especially if she’s already ensured no more resistance to deal with. Eve’s knife even has a handle that curves into a guard. _Nice. Very practical. No troublesome slippage._

Returning the knife to its place, she shuts the drawer, turning back towards the living room now that she’s confirmed where in the kitchen the useful pointy things live. She isn’t eager to have to use them. Just doing her due diligence. Eve has been very helpful, very free with information about her life. No more husband, few friends, mundane job. If it comes to it, Eve likely won’t be missed right away. Should things go south and call for a violent hasty escape, Villanelle will be long gone before any trouble is called round.

Again, she doesn’t prefer it comes to that. _Eve is pretty good. Helpful, entertaining to observe._ As far as people she allows to hang around some version of herself for any length of time, Villanelle is satisfied so far with Eve Polastri. She keeps cake around, she has adequate first aid supplies, she is clearly interested in Villanelle, which is a given, but still flattering and not unwelcome from a woman with such very nice hair.

She takes her time perusing the small living room’s perimeter, tracing a finger along the dusty mantle, un-straightening an odd painting of a large bird, fiddling with the knobs on a clunky stereo. In the morning bright and comparative peace, she notices now just how many… things there are around, everywhere. Miscellaneous flotsam crowded on every surface, some clearly from very different points in time, some slightly worn with use, many gathering a thin coat of white dust. _This is how hoarders begin._ She eyes a stack of board games dubiously. _Ten times as much as I have in my flat, and not even worth a twentieth of it. I could practically fit this house in my place, how does she pack so much in here?_

Head sideways to read titles from a long row of paperbacks, she picks up on faint stirring from upstairs. Rustling, a yawn, a muffled thump—an elbow or knee colliding with the corner of a nightstand, probably—some indistinguishable muttered curse. _Heh._ Villanelle steps cooly back to her couch and tucks herself again into a sleeping position while she listens for several minutes to steps from bed to bathroom, a door closing, water running briefly, a flush.

She lowers her eyelids and evens her breathing to a gentle restful whisper. Tracks the sound of Eve descending the stairs, entering the living room. It’s quiet again for nearly a minute.

She takes a big breath blending into a yawn, blinks her eyes open as though they are sandy with sleep. Eve is just standing there looking at her.

 _Huh. Weird._ She blinks. Eve blinks back. Then she seems to become aware her look is now reciprocated and clears her throat.

“Hey,” Eve says, scratching at her stomach through some old faded concert tee. “Mornin’. How’d you sleep?”

Villanelle props herself up on her elbows. “Very sound, thanks. Much better than a laundromat bench.”

“That is exactly how the salesman pitched this couch to us.”

“It’s what you want in a good couch, definitely.”

Eve smiles. “Well, I’m going to make some coffee, then I’ll probably need to dip into a few work things just for a bit. Get it out of the way. You want coffee?”

Villanelle doesn’t particularly need coffee, not like other people do—Eve included, she suspects. Villanelle enjoys coffee as an indulgence rather than downs it like an antidote. She usually makes herself a breve at home on cooler mornings, but she knows Eve’s kitchen lacks a proper espresso machine and she’ll pass on any watery drip concoction.

“Not at the moment, thank you.” What would be more helpful is a way to rid herself of the lingering grime feeling of several days of running. “Would it be alright for me to have a quick bath, though? I’m still a bit of a mess.”

“Oh! Yes, yes of course.” Eve gives herself a light “woops!” tap on the head and turns back towards the stairs. “Follow me, I’ll get you set up.”

Villanelle follows as Eve shuttles back and forth between rooms upstairs, accepts the stack of fresh towels and non-pajama clothes (including some extremely plain underwear) that Eve hands her.

“Okay, I think you’re good then. Shampoo and conditioner are over here, um, body wash right there. Holler if you need any help! With the injury and all.”

Villanelle nods, chirps her thanks, then closes and locks the door behind Eve once she goes off to start some sad coffee. Inspecting herself in the mirror while she waits for the tub to fill, she’s thankful the scrapes on her forehead (already becoming a pattern of thin crisp scabs) and her various small cuts and bruises haven’t significantly detracted from her beautiful face. _Stunning. Even after a log to the face. Incredible._ She winks at her reflection.

Then— _Shit!_ —a sudden ache, a throb, like her stab wound groaning. She undoes the buttons of her festive penguin top and folds back the fabric draped over her wound. Slowly, she lifts a corner of the bandage until the whole thing unsticks from her skin. She deposits the covering in the bin while looking the injury over intently. Still red, still a bit tacky, but seemingly no worse than last night when Eve had tended to it. _Stupid stab._

Villanelle glares at it, as though her scowl will cow it into submission. Perhaps it does, because after a couple more notable throbs, the pain lightens until she can’t feel it anymore. _Better_. _Stay that way._ Shaking her head, she reaches for the big ibuprofen bottle and throws back a couple more pills.

The tub sounds about full, so she shirks her clothes fully off, letting them puddle at her feet on the tile. Trailing her fingers through the bathwater, she nods at its temperature and twists the knobs off. As each leg slides lower into the water, warmth spreads upward, waking her muscles, sinews, nerves. She breathes out, completely lowered, settled into a recline. She’s missed baths. Far from her own lovely pale blush tub, tasteful golden taps, menagerie of pretty glass holding her sundry delicate perfumes, oils, shampoos… at least if she closes her eyes she’s a little closer to home.

She spares a glance for the hefty plastic bottle of two-in-one shampoo/conditioner (“now 8% more in each bottle!”) and pouts mournfully. _Poor thing. With her hair? What an abuse._ Eve really ought to care for her hair better. It’s a miracle it’s thriving in spite of inhospitable treatment. _God, what a gigantic bottle. It will take years to finish._ She considers disappearing it and quietly replacing it with an acceptable alternative in the near future. It will be doing Eve a favor.

As she leisurely smooths her arms thoroughly clean, she lets her thoughts drift back to her studies of Eve’s circumstances and her cluttered little house. She’s satisfied with the easy escape points. Seems like she’ll have steady access to food. A suitable setup for tending to her injuries. She’d been concerned, back at the grocery, that whatever random body she followed home would turn out to present her with troublesome annoyances—gross food, lacking first aid stock, creepy advances, too many insistent questions. In which case, she’d have had to make due with their shelter as a quick pitstop, then find herself another place for reprieve.

Villanelle isn’t sure yet if Eve will become troublesome, but so far she is good. The house is fine. And this is like a little social experiment, educational. Being in a normal home, among the wreckage of a marriage, tacky remnants of a boring co-existence. It is good research, maybe. Perhaps she’ll need it someday to play convincingly at being some unfortunate divorced straight woman—a persona she’s sure will leave an unpleasant aftertaste, but she commits when she is playing someone else. _Maybe I will use the thing about tectonic plates, it seems duller than a big fight, but also sadder._

Not that she’s figured out yet exactly what roles her future holds for her at the moment. With her career trajectory rather derailed, or maybe detoured, and her body in repair— _fuck you very much, Gustaffson, you amateur, and your idiot lucky jab_ —she’s in need of some self re-assessment. They don’t know where she is presently, or they’d have sent her another friend to play with by now. But who knows how invested they are in sniffing her out in this bland patch of London, now that she’s shaken them off her trail?

 _Deal with it later._ Right now, she’s sated with her restful soak. She drains and steps out from the tub, towels herself off, and returns to the mirror. It’s steamed up from her bath, the whole room is, so she wipes a swath of fog off its surface to reveal her own eyes—sharp, calculating. _They underestimate me._ Her grin cuts an angle that promises danger. _I’ll figure it out. Don’t I always?_

The steam is a bit much though, actually. She’s beginning to feel a bit lightheaded, so she dresses quickly (this new offering of garments is equally unstylish and puzzling, but she has no complaints for now, heated and lazy as she’s feeling), gathers the rest of the clothes from the floor, and pulls the door open a crack.

She pokes her head out first, refreshed at the noticeably cooler air of the hallway. Listening, she makes out sounds—stirring, scraping, sizzling—that must be Eve in the kitchen. _She sounds busy._ Must have finished her work tasks and gone down to throw some food together. So the upstairs is empty. _Might as well make the rounds here too._

Villanelle wanders unbothered into Eve’s bedroom first. Her eyes land on a small frame, turned down on a dresser. She walks over and lifts the frame, finding a photograph of Eve, smiling bright, tucked into the side of an amiable looking man, also smiling. _How boring._ The picture is old and a little grainy, but she easily makes out thin gold bands on the pair’s left hands. Husband. Funny. Villanelle supposes the man has a notable mustache, but excepting that, she doesn’t discern anything remarkable about the man, nothing that would compel someone to betroth themselves to him. Not that Villanelle has ever met anyone she’s thought about marrying, really. Not realistically, anyway.

She drops the frame face down as it was onto the dresser. Takes a nearby book, opens it, and places it on top of the frame, covering it completely.

Looking at the bed, she thinks of Eve and the mustache man entangled on top of it, his pale shapeless butt jiggling as he thrust tepidly on top of Eve. _Horrible._ Villanelle wonders if Eve has ever had a truly erotic coitus in her life. Probably not, if she’s only ever tried it with the mustache. Hopefully she’d enjoyed livelier encounters before being tethered to that bad haircut in a flannel shirt. _Straight women endure so much. It’s one of the most substantial tragedies that we as a species face._

Villanelle opens the closet by the bed and rifles through its contents. A lot of muddy blue that feels almost grey. A couple white oxfords. Plain black skirts. One offensive green scarf spotted with zebras, of all things, that matched nothing else in the closet. _Amazing._ It’s disappointing to confirm that Eve doesn’t own a single item of clothing that would embrace her naturally exquisite looks. She makes a note in her mental reminders to think about purchasing Eve some real clothes before she recovers and departs, as a courtesy gift.

She continues to the small office tucked away in the corner of the upstairs. Cave-like, dark, densely covered on every surface and wall with various things—books, binders, discs. _Again, such clutter._ True to form, it seems every spot Eve touches in the house is spotted with stuff.

On the desk, there’s a stack of books, jutting out at every angle. She reads the spines. _When Women Kill, Psychopathy in Women, Hysteria: Female Psychosis_. This seems intriguingly on the nose. _Fun choice in light reading. Is she police after all? A therapist maybe?_ Villanelle has always found therapists pointless. Stupid nitpickers with stupid words.

Then again, she's not sure therapists read so many books about murder specifically. _Maybe she really is a killer and I should keep an eye on her?_ She doubts it, though, recalling Eve's thin frame and how easily she's flustered. _Still, she eats murder books like candy. I should ask about it later. Maybe we_ _could bond over it._ There’s no way Eve is Villanelle’s type of killer, though, so they’d only have so much in common. Just as well. _If I were any ordinary killer, she conceivably could have pegged me for a stabby scoundrel by the time we walked in the door._ Your average killing creep is so transparent typically, one-note.

She’s just sniffed the plant hanging in the corner by the window and is peaking through the blinds when she’s interrupted.

“Hey, what’s up..?” from behind her. She sprinkles fear into her expression, then turns.

“Eve, oh! I thought I… I’ve just finished my bath, when I came out… I thought I heard something—a crash or a jostling—coming from here…” She breathes quickly, uneven, a hand over her heartbeat. “I thought it might be… you know, _them_ , found me all over again.”

Eve narrows her eyes and makes her way quietly to Villanelle’s side. She bends one slat of the blinds down slightly with a sharp snap, peering out onto the street. There’s a delivery truck, a few kids, and a pissing dog down below, Villanelle knows. Checking the lock’s still firmly secured, Eve turns back to her (she’s been waiting patiently while Eve was protectively on lookout, shoulders to her ears, arms folded into her chest, hands clutching nervously near her collarbone).

“We’re okay.” A reassuring smile. “It was the delivery truck, probably. They’re always a racket. I swear the guys don’t even leave the truck, just throw packages directly at a house and keep going.”

Villanelle sighs in relief. “Oh, right, of course. I guess I’m still jittery after everything, sorry.”

“Not at all!” Eve says brightly. “I wouldn’t be eager to get stabbed a second time either. But it’s very quiet here. Sometimes if I space out I end up on the next street over walking home from work. They all look the same.”

Villanelle laughs nervously.

“Anyway, I just came up to let you know breakfast’s ready! Or brunch. One of those no-rush days sounds like a good plan. Hope you’re hungry.”

 _Always._ “Starving, thank you!”

—————

They sit at the table this time. The aftermath of Eve’s cooking is apparent throughout the kitchen. Several pots and pans are stacked on the counter next to the bulging sink pile of last night’s dishes. Villanelle can still feel the heat in waves off the stove, which is now sporting several colorful splashes around the burners. _Very Pollock, but more textural._ Some not-quite-placeable aromas are lingering in the air.

Two slices of toast, some scrambled eggs, and bacon sit before Villanelle. She’s taken a couple bites so far and looks at the plate, chewing, contemplating. The eggs are… watery. Eve seems to have taken liberty with some spices mixed in as well, a green spice and one red-brown. One piece of toast is slightly burnt at the edges, while the other remains soft and seems barely warmed. The bacon is rubbery, but it’s still bacon so the fatty salt of it is still tasty.

“Nothing fancy,” Eve says, peppering her eggs and bacon. “But it’ll do. I don’t cook too often, work’s pretty busy, but I figured I should at least try with a guest around. How is it?”

Villanelle swallows. “Oh, very good, thank you.” It’s bad. “How nice, you didn’t have to go such trouble. I’ll eat anything.”

It’s true. The meal is bad, quite bad. Honestly, she isn’t too bothered though. She continues forking meat and egg into her mouth, biting bread, chewing, swallowing. It’s food. She’ll live. Eve hums peacefully while spreading raspberry jam onto her toast.

“So,” Villanelle says, thoroughly casual. “I’m so sorry, I hope it’s not a bother. When I was in the study earlier, I happened to see…”

Eve looks up.

“There was a, um, interesting reading pile on your desk..?”

She leaves the rest hanging, the implication “why does a normal woman have half a dozen books on killing and mental divergences in her study?” clear. She knows Eve understands what she means. She keeps her eyes innocently inquisitive.

“Oh,” Eve says. “Oh.”

_Yes, Eve. “Oh.” What curious explanation do you have for me about that little find, hm?_

Eve looks at the jam-sticky knife in her hand. She sets it down, clearing her throat.

“Those uh… those books are work-related,” she says, unconvincingly.

Villanelle tilts her head, politely inviting her to go on.

“I mean—I don’t work with killers, of course, Julie. I don’t like, _kill_ people for a living, that would be absurd,” she laughs sheepishly.

_Absurd, yeah._

“I just. I’m just interested, you know? I work a security-related job and mostly it’s just handing out bodyguards to visiting dignitaries, academics, sometimes a celebrity who’s—I don’t know who decides—important enough to warrant it.”

Villanelle nods indulgently, like Eve’s rambling is explaining anything.

“No one ever dies it’s just. I got curious about, what’s involved when someone _does_ die? I studied criminal psychology in school. Who kills? _Why?_ How do they do it? And it’s usually—it’s always _men_ we fixate on as a society. Male serial killers, male contract killers. Everybody assumes men murder and women don’t.”

_Hm._

“The patriarchy is a huge problem, yes,” Villanelle offers.

“Women kill. Women kill _better_ than men.”

Villanelle narrows her eyes, nodding, signaling that Eve has just said something quite fascinating. Which she has. Villanelle doesn’t often debate the matter with others, but she certainly has a lot of firsthand experience with the subject. Eve unconsciously plays with the collar of her sweater. _Sweater-shirt? I think it’s just a collar, attached to a sweater. How does it work?_ She looks Villanelle in the eye, unwavering.

“I know I said I was definitely not a crazy murderer pretending to be a kind samaritan, and this probably isn’t giving you a lot of comfort.”

_Oh, I feel very at ease, thank you._

“Eve, don’t worry about it,” she says in her smoothest, most reassuring tone.

Eve looks skeptical.  

“Really, don’t. I believe you. I was out like a toddler for ten hours last night. You found me already poked through my gut. If you’d wanted to kill me, you could have managed it easily at any point before now.”

Eve bites her lip, eyebrows scrunched in thought. It’s cute. She seems to arrive at agreement with Villanelle’s reasoning.

“Julie, you’re pretty level-headed for someone at the mercy of a stranger who reads informational manslaughter material for kicks.”

 _What? Do you_ want _me to think you could kill me? Why would you bluntly contradict everything I just handed to you?_ Villanelle shrugs lightly, her head still cocked.

“I think it’s a natural curiosity,” she says. “Nothing weird about thinking on death, we’re all going there. Seems reasonable, being curious about people who send others there early. It’s more normal than everyone pretends. To be morbidly voyeuristic. Like how people can never help jamming up traffic to catch a glimpse of a crash.”

“Cars really are speeding metal death traps…” Eve mumbles more to herself than to Villanelle.

“I respect you don’t shy away from all that,” Villanelle continues. “Knowing something is gaining more power over it.”

Eve’s eyes widen, but she smiles, relieved.

“I guess so,” she says. “Well, thank you for being cool about it in any case. Not really a hobby I try to talk to a lot of people about. Please don’t phone me in as a threat to persons around me.”

She chuckles, reaching for the jam again.

“Only if you don’t phone them about me!” Villanelle jokes back.

They return to their liquidy, blackened, chewy meal. Villanelle feels satisfied and more than a little entertained by this revelation about Eve. She isn’t alarmed at learning about Eve’s morbid interests. She admits she’s pleased, fascinated. Eve herself is not a killer, she’s certain now, so that’s not a concern. But what are the odds that she’d have wound up going home with a desk jockey in charge of mediocre rental security guards, who also moonlights as some kind of criminal enthusiast? _A woman with a hard-on for female killers?_

 _No wonder she didn’t shy away from rescuing me_. _The stab, the gritty story, needling a man through the throat. I’m practically this woman’s type._ Villanelle’s personas are everyone’s type, but she doesn’t usually incorporate much of her “real” self (whatever that is) into those characters—how lethal she is, how easy it is for her to slice an artery, how she enjoys drinking in eyes that stare clear through her into an expanding void. Perhaps Eve would enjoy a little of that, just a hint.

Eve has no idea what a messy game she’s playing though. _Poor bored, mild mannered, little Eve._ If she really got herself caught up in Villanelle’s world, if she really understood the business of killing, the inner workings of an atypical exceptional brain set to the task of meditated murder, she wouldn’t know what to do with it.

So here they are, sitting at a small table, Eve offering Villanelle questionable eggs and Villanelle (Julie) politely eating them. Come to think of it, maybe she shouldn’t be eating them after all… She’s always known her stomach to be cast iron, always hungry and always up to eating anything. She’d eaten plenty of spoiled, stale, and expired food as a kid. Colorless, flavorless bricks and blobs of sustenance in prison. She loves fine dining but can switch easily to survival mode whenever needed, she’s not picky, really.

But perhaps this is yet another surprise about Eve, that she is so unfortunate a home cook that she’s managed to best even Villanelle’s unshakeable stomach. Villanelle’s feeling a little nauseous suddenly, and the pain in her side is throbbing steadily again. _Urghhh._

“Hey,” Eve says, eyes flitting over Villanelle’s face. “Are you alright..? You’re sweating a lot.”

“Am I? No, I’m sure I’m fine.” _It’s fine. I took pills. It’ll go away again._

“Really?” _Fuck!_ The pain swells. _Aughh, god, maybe not._

Villanelle thinks it over in her head. She’s not sure even raw food would upset her digestive system this quickly. Her body’s never rejected food so violently. But it is getting harder for her to think clearly, to sit upright, to grasp her fork.

 _Oh no._ An answer comes to mind. _The wound._ It aches. _It’s infected._ She groans, releasing the fork to clatter to the table, pushing her forearm into her stomach and doubling over in her seat.

“Julie?! What’s wrong, what is it?”

_I need medication. The fever’s already happening._

“I… _oh_ , I’m not sure I.... I feel very ill suddenly. Is it warm in here? I feel very warm.”

Eve puts her cool hand to Villanelle’s brow and for a second, the sensation is soothing through the growing discomfort.

Eve frowns. “You’re feverish. Talk to me. What else are you feeling? The wound, how is it?”

“I… I feel queasy and. The wound, it isn’t bleeding but it’s hurting again. It feels hot.”

It does. Hotter by the second. And pinpricks of sharp are now dotting the swell of her spreading ache. A slow squeezing feeling. Her body fighting itself. _Fuck, fuck this, fuck._

Eve’s brows furrow deeply. “I think you’re infected. You need attention right away.”

_Attention. Doctors. Hospitals. Questions. No, no attention._

“But… no, I can’t see a doctor like this. It isn’t safe… they’ll find me if I do. They’ll know. “

“Are you _sure_? No one followed us. You said you shook them off your trail before you came here and you didn’t even know where you’d end up. They can’t have found you again already.”

_No, but in a hospital they will find me._

“They have ways… Eve, they have ears and eyes everywhere, fingers in every pie. A hospital will ask _questions_ , they’ll search the records for me and—ping—somewhere, my employers, they will notice. _They’ll come._ We’ll _both_ be in danger.”

The expression Villanelle is coming to know as Eve’s thinking face returns. She knows Eve is turning over the implications of what she’s said in her mind. She’s skeptical, but she’s interested. _Good._ She wants to know more. But there isn’t time now. _Not now, Eve. Later. Get me what I need now and I will spin you more fun, dangerous stories and show you more scars, later._ She turns up the volume of her next moan to shake Eve from her thoughts.

“Medicine. The antibiotics you need will be prescription, we can’t get them over the counter. No doctor, no prescription, no drugs…”

Villanelle squeezes her eyes, tilts her face up to Eve, opens them fresh with tears. “I don’t know what to do, Eve…”

Eve reaches for her phone, furiously tapping something onto the screen. Villanelle’s eyes widen. _Do not call anyone. Don’t be foolish._

“Antibiotics, cut infection…” she begins mumbling to herself as her fingers scroll the screen. “Amoxicillan?”

_No. That sounds wrong._

“Abdomen… wound… Tigecycline?”

_Yes. That time after Ankara. The company doctor had me on that._

“Okay, ah, okay it looks like maybe you need Tigecycline. I’ve got an article pulled up here. And, um, a video? How to administer it I think? Shit, god fuck these pop-ups.”

_Thank you, internet._

“It’s intravenous, you’ll need it injected… Treats severe infections. A stab’s probably severe, right? God we really can’t walk in a drug store and buy this.”

 _Use your overthinking brain, play detective and solve this. Find a way._ Villanelle grits her teeth and swallows down a feeling of bile in her chest.

“We can’t just rob a hospital either… Maybe the pharmacy has some behind the counter? But we still have no prescription. There’s no time anyway. I’d need… I’d need someone else’s.”

_Yes. I need it, Eve. Get me the medicine._

“I’d need to show up and pretend to be someone else to claim the prescription.”

_Then pretend to be someone else for a bit, it isn’t hard._

“It’s—Christ, it’s illegal, definitely. It’s a crime to impersonate someone, it’s a _big_ crime to take prescription drugs that aren’t yours while you’re at it. _Shiiittt._ ”

 _It’s a crime for someone like me to be brought to this level! Who cares if it’s a crime, Eve?_ Her growing frustration is battling her flaring pain for her attention. She fights them both down. _What’ll it take, Eve? Are you going to let me die at your dinner table? What do you want from me?_ She closes her eyes again and inhales.

“I’m sorry to put you in this position.”

Eve says nothing, waits.

“I should never have come here… I should never have gotten you mixed up in this. I hoped I could outrun them. I hoped I could make a clean escape, start over.” She grips the table’s edge.

 _You want your story, Eve? I’ll give you a little. Just a taste, so you’ll help me._ She isn’t entirely sure it’ll work but she’s used to making informed guesses, split-second decisions in a bind. She throws out her bait.

“I wish I could’ve found out who these bastards really are… _God_ , they’ve made my life a _hell_. They’re merciless. There are others like me, I’m sure. _There’s no out once you’re in._ They get what they want, these people, and there’s nothing they won’t do to get it, nothing they don't get away with."

Eve’s brain is breaking speed records. A glint in her eyes is sparking dangerously, her face etched in creases with the weight of decisions. _What’ll it be, Eve?_ Eve shakes her head, to herself. She’s entirely in her own head in this moment. _Don’t let me down, Eve. Don’t disappoint. You’ll regret it._ The fever is thickening. _We can have more fun here, right? We aren't done yet, you and me._

She stares dead at Eve, not with Julie’s eyes, but her own. She stares, her ferocious will to live tangible. Eve doesn’t see her, isn’t with her in the room, at the table. She’s tapping her fingernails in time neurotically to the _throbbing, squeezing_ in Villanelle’s skull and gut. Eve is a mad conductor and the symphony of Villanelle’s every sense is taking cues from Eve’s tapping, her pinched brow, her twisted lips, screeching a discordant crescendo.

_I'm the only interesting thing in your life._

Eve’s eyes snap to Villanelle’s, dark as death. She’s decided.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _From here on, you can count on all things going_  
>  _The way they must've from the start_  
>  _(All you feel, all you feel)_  
>  _All you feel is the current flowing through you_  
>  _And seizing your infected heart_  
>   
>  \- LUDO | Topeka  
>   
> -_-_-_-  
>   
> Thank you as always for reading, leaving kudos, and for kindly commenting or reaching out to me! <3 I’ve seen those interview bits everywhere today and I’ve got some thoughts, but I’ll toss em on tumblr so as not to make these notes a million years long. Whether you’ve seen those quotes or not and however you may be feeling about them, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.  
>   
>  **Currently updating regularly on Mondays (but Tuesday this week so we’ll see). Bookmark or check my tumblr if you'd like notifications :]**  
>   
>   
>  **Author's sticky notes:**
> 
>   * Apologies to the straights for my speculation of Niko sex. To be fair though, it's been basically confirmed (I wrote this bit before I hope you like missionary dropped, but I guess we all been knew already that Niko is vanilla froyo, like not even real ice cream, it's sad) 
>   * Villanelle is such a snob, so spoiled by now. I do like bathstuff though. Love lavender, love tea tree, love handmade bars bought from soapmaking friends with names like “wild hunt” 
>   * It’s okay to rely on others when you need a little help (illegally procuring life-saving antibiotics) 
>   * If you can’t make your own prescription Tigecycline, store-bought (stolen) is fine. And shoutout to any friends on mental health meds, don’t forget to take ‘em. Tag yourself, I’m Escitalopram, Trazadone, Bupropion. And Vitamin D. 
> 

> 
>   
> Thank you to my partner K for reviewing: Check out their [tumblr](https://azaraih.tumblr.com/) and their [insta](https://www.instagram.com/azaraih/)!  
>   
> See my profile for all the places I'm at, but for basics: @somonastic or just somonastic on [Tumblr](https://somonastic.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/somonastic), and [ IG ](https://www.instagram.com/somonastic/). Have a restful slumber, friend, and may you always have that one friend who will impersonate a stranger to get you drugs that you deserve.


	5. Tegucigalpa in two hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> || This is all just what any decent person would do for a stranger in need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, my life is a marathon at the moment! Chaotic, albeit joyful. Training for a work switch I’m excited about, working on my still new style blog, and most joyfully, a couple months out from my wedding I’ve been planning for over a year!! I love writing this fic, but it’s a challenge to squeeze in the time. I’d say I will most likely need to fall back to irregular updates until after the wedding, to maintain sanity and health. I’ll keep trying my best to work on A6R and get updates out to y’all! Thanks for reading <3  
>   
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/68806783@N00/48326105781/in/album-72157691465196233/)
> 
> _We came across a pharmacy_  
>  _With its windows busted out_  
>  _Pushed on through the broken glass_  
>  _And had ourselves a look around_  
>  _The medicines, the medicines_  
>  _That esculent macabre for the mouth_  
>   
>  — THE TAXPAYERS | Medicines  
> -_-_-_-

Eve marches up to the counter brusquely, slamming down her arm with authority. The employee manning the counter is a curly-headed, tall, lanky young man who Eve swears belongs in high school band practice and not distributing prescription medication. _Great. Never seen him in here. Must be pretty new._ He looks at her with jaywalking deer eyes and she practically hears all his muscles freeze up.

“Tigecycline, _now_. My son forgot his dose ran out and we leave for Tegucigalpa in two hours.”

“Uh, name Miss? Mrs?” he stammers, looking in need of ambulatory rescue.

“My name? You don’t know me? I come in all the time for my meds, I can’t stand here and break ice with you,” Eve puts a hand to her temple. “I’ve had a _real_ shitfest of a quarter and I am _not_ missing that plane to my one chance at five minutes without some dipshit calling me about performance metrics.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. It’ll only take a second, I just need to look you up in the system—”

_How common_ _is this prescription anyway? I really don't want to have harassed a pubescent adult for no reason. Fuck, what if they don’t have it??_   Eve groans, incredulous. 

“People aren’t just numbers in a system, _Reggie_ ,” Eve glances once at his nametag. “There are real people who depend on these meds, Reg. My son? David? You want him to just become one big bacterial infection while we’re on vacation? You’re responsible for his well-being.”

Reggie is speechless. _Jesus, should David even be flying to Tegucigalpa in his condition..? How infected is he?_

Eve waves a hand vaguely towards the rows behind him.

“Tygacil. Help me out here, please. I just really, _really_ need to be in a cab with that bottle in my son’s backpack in seventeen minutes, or I’m going to blow my fuse.”

Reggie is very aware that she is giving him blown fuse all over right now and pales at the thought of her fuse being more blown than this. _Poor kid._ He types something quickly into the computer.   
  
“Mrs. ah… Mrs. Englemann?”

_Christ, thank god._ Eve nods urgently. “Yes, yes thank you, I've only been coming here for years.”

“Okay,” Reggie says, wobbly. 

He turns to the drawers behind him, retrieves a small glass bottle and a couple syringes.

“Throw a couple extra in please, would you?” _Do they do that? Like ketchup packets?_

Reggie startles, but does as she says, throwing everything into a small white paper bag.

“Just-uh, signature ma’am?”

Eve nods, scribbles something illegible onto the register pad—it looks like a sideways flamingo?—and punches the green rubbery button.

The printer whirrs on and Reggie stares with concentration at the paper inching its way out of the slot. He snatches it as soon as it’s done, staples it quickly to the white bag, and juts his arm out, offering the demanded package hastily to Eve like he's just pulled it barehand from the oven.

“Perfect,” Eve smiles thinly. “Thank you, Reggie. Sorry for the rush, really. I hope I'll see you again next refill.”

_I can never set foot in here again._

Reggie nods weakly, wishes her a good rest of her day. Eve hears him release a huge shuddering breath once she’s taken a few brisk steps away from the counter. 

_God it makes me rage how efficient things are when you’re a dick to people._

———————

_Okay, okay, where’s that video?_ She flips through tabs on her phone—email, work email, cats in wigs, article about abdominal wound infections— _Ah! Finally, here._

She slides the video back to the beginning and hits play. An old man who looks like he’d rather be golfing appears on the screen, gesturing blandly to supplies on a table. _Ugh damn forgot this stupid intro._ She taps the video to 0:52, 1:07. The clip has transitioned to a 3d-animated medical visual of a poreless, uncannily smooth, zoomed-in torso. 

It’s a weekend and nicely mild, so there are a lot of people out and about and it seems like every one of them is committed to ambling as slowly and aimlessly as possible through Eve’s path. _JESUS why the fuck is everyone out trying to have fun right now?? Get a life, this is an emergency, dumbasses!_

_Ugh fuck wait, did I miss something? What the fuck was that measurement, shit._ Eve backs the video up again and spams her volume rocker until her phone’s now blasting a monotonous clinical woman’s voice calmly explaining to make sure the needle does not miss the vein you are aiming for, or you will need to remove and re-insert the needle again, causing unnecessary potential pain and anxiety. A sweaty man in workout gear cooling down from a jog looks her way. 

“Just my podcast!! Fascinating. Great medical facts,” she shrugs, exaggerated, and continues hurriedly on.

Eve wonders if she should, by now in her life, have in fact experienced needing to give someone an emergency injection at some point. She searches her memory and comes up only with childhood scrapes, sprained ankle from tennis in college, one time when she stapled her thumb and Niko had been so surprised when she showed him that he dropped the bowl of muffin batter he’d been stirring. _None of that’s useful, why don’t they teach us this shit in sch_ — 

An urgent piercing honk. Tires screeching. 

Eve is ripped suddenly from her critique on the education system. She looks around and meets eyes with an elderly woman in a prim little red hatchback, one hand clutching the wheel, the other clutching her chest, eyes wide in shock. They stare at each other from about a foot and a half apart, with only some glass and candy-apple-coated metal between them. Looking down, Eve finds her right foot is just shy of this woman’s left front tire. She blinks.

“Holy _DICKS_ !!” Eve barks. “Pedestrian here, lady, right of way!! Who taught you how to _drive_??”

The woman gives her a look that’s forty percent indignant, sixty percent just baffled by Eve and drives smoothly away to whatever the rest of her day’s going to be like. Eve waits numbly for the rest of the queued cars to glide past, registering nothing but a muffled insistent pounding that she faintly realizes is her pulse. When the light turns, she steps through the intersection and stops once her soles touch sidewalk again. 

_Fuck, I could’ve_ died _right there. And what good would that do? Can’t save someone’s life if you get flattened by the world’s tiniest hatchback._

“Jesus…” she whispers, her surroundings blank. “What am I doing?” 

_Saving Julie._

“Yeah, but, by stealing—” Eve looks at the receipt stapled to the paper bag, “— _Kathleen_ Engelmann’s drugs and _walking_ into traffic? Christ, I should’ve taken her to a hospital.”

_You know you can’t. If you do, she’ll be dead soon after anyway._

“God what a mess.”

_Yeah. But it needs to be you. She’s counting on you._

“Ha. Big mistake to count on me, ask anyone.” She’s still mumbling to herself. “And we don’t even know each other.”

Eve thinks back to the dinner they’d been having together. Their easy conversation. How frightfully pained Julie had looked, hunched over at the dinner table. How Eve’s mind had broken speed records weighing her options, wondering what she should do and if she _could_ do it. 

And then she’d remembered the look in Julie’s eyes back in the grocery aisle, the strange feeling it had pulled from somewhere in Eve that “she needs me, _I_ have to help her.” The feeling had tugged again. It tugs now.

Eve closes her eyes, inhales _1-2-3-4_ , exhales _5-4-3-2-1_. It’s something Elena once read in an article headline (she hadn’t quite read the rest of the article) and had told Eve was good for you when you’re feeling overwhelmed.

She opens her eyes. 

_Just one more block._ The paper bag crinkles in her fist. She takes off at a half-jog towards home.

———————

“I got it!” Eve calls out breathlessly from the entryway, keys jingling while she fumbles to lock the door and remove her coat simultaneously. “I had to terrify a tall child to do it, but I got it.”

Response comes in the form of a groan from the living room that may have been an attempt at “Oh, thanks.”

When Eve steps in, she’s met with Julie, eyes closed, melting on the couch. Her face is pale, tinged slightly greenish, and slicked with perspiration. 

“ _God,_ wow.” 

Julie scrunches her face, then opens her eyes slowly. 

“I must look a wreck, don’t I? I’m—” she doubles over, arms at her abdomen, “I’m afraid the wound’s very infected, I’m— _rrrghh_ —feeling very poor at the moment…”

She holds back a jagged groan in her throat and writhes. _Shit, shit!_

“Oh! Hold on I—two seconds! I-I got you, just a second!”

Eve drops the pharmacy bag on the table and bolts upstairs to the bathroom, snatches cotton balls and alcohol from the shelf, and stumbles back down to Julie, who’s now struggling to keep her breaths even. Kneeling in front of the sofa, Eve shoves the table over some to give her more room. She dumps the supplies on it and rips the paper bag open, spilling the bottle and syringes onto the tabletop.

She takes the alcohol, screws the cap off, and douses a cotton ball in the fluid. The scent is sharp. She turns wide-eyed to Julie.

“Uh, where—?”

Julie flops her right arm over to Eve, in offering.

Eve pinches around the forearm, near the wrist, searching for the brightest branch of blue. Choosing one, Eve rubs circles over the skin there with the soaked cotton ball. She tosses it and takes up a syringe and the bottle. With a dexterity Eve is sure she doesn’t normally posses, she pops the cap off the syringe, holds it and the bottle upside down above her, slides the needle into the top and eases the plunger out. Amber liquid fills the barrel, illuminated as Eve holds it up to the light. 

At 100mg, she removes the needle, carefully replaces the bottle on the table. 

“Julie?”

Nothing. Julie’s face has paled further and she hasn’t said anything since Eve bolted for the bathroom. Eve isn’t sure if she’s conscious or not. 

One hand holds Julie’s arm steady while the other positions the needle just above the bright vein she cleaned a moment ago. 

“I’m going to stick this in now,” she whispers. “I got you.”

She slides it in, acutely focused, watching the silvery needle disappear into skin. She pushes the flange, liquid draining from the barrel, flowing into the vein to hopefully fend off whatever bacteria had this woman limp like a corpse. 

_Please._ Eve hopes. The barrel is empty. _Please..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _But our rotting corpses lying there_  
>  _Soon began to leak_  
>  _And grow these lesions that all smelled_  
>  _Just like a rose_  
>  _And all the blood and guts inside us_  
>  _Germinated into timeless pages_  
>  _Stained with lines of lovely prose_  
>   
>  — THE TAXPAYERS | Medicines  
>   
> -_-_-_-  
>   
> Hello! You commenters are all filling me with joy, I grin at reading every one. Seriously, thank you <3 I’m glad y’all are enjoying so far! Hopefully it seems like I’ve got a handle on it all, but it still is actually the first fic I’ve ever written, for anything, so my overthinky anxiety brain does still go “hmm but what if… this sucks and also you suck??” C’est la depress/anxiety life. I certainly do my best to reason “nah bud, it’s fine and you’re fine shh eat a snack.” But it’s just a nice little boost of reassurance to hear readers confirm they’re liking it. So I quite appreciate the comments :]  
>   
>  **I started out updating once a week and would like to get back to doing so. But I’ll likely need to scale back quite a bit for the next couple months, as I’m super booked up lately with finalizing arrangements for my wedding, September 1st! Woohoo! After that I should be back on top of things. In the meantime, I’ll try to sneak a chapter in here and there if I can. Bookmark or check my[tumblr](https://somonastic.tumblr.com/) (I also do post-chap behind-the-scenes thoughts here) if you'd like notifications :] **  
>   
>   
> **Author's sticky notes:**
> 
>   * I did my best to make the medical aspects sound plausible, but also I definitely fudged and guessed at some things. Would the Tygacil actually be made out under David Englemann's name? Is it at all possible in real life to haphazardly acquire and administer Tygacil this way? No one knows, there's no way of knowing. 
>   * If you think about it, aren't injections just medical stabbing? It's what I refer to them as. I used to hate getting them, until once at the start of college, I had to get 8 vaccinations in one go (college requirements + plans to visit the US-Mexican border). Apparently enough for me to acclimate to it. 
>   * Half the reason I started getting regular flu shots was just to keep myself acclimated to them, lest I slip back into being afeared of their pokey ways. Please do your part to strengthen our health as a society by getting medically stabbed on a regular basis if able. 
>   * Nothing this fic says should be taken as medical advice or opinion. It’s for fun. Can’t you just _have fun_ for an hour and not try to diagnose your mystery boil? We think you’ve earned it. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy a moment of distraction from that… _weird_ growth. You’re _worth it_. _[Listen to the podcast Sawbones, a marital tour of misguided medicine by Justin and Dr. Sydnee McElroy. Listen to the entire McElroy family pantheon of podcasts.]_
>   * Please make it a point to get yourself regular medical stabbings in the form of vaccinations. Modern medicine saves lives. Keep yourself and everyone around you healthy, especially those who are unable to receive vaccination for themselves and depend on herd immunity. 
> 

> 
>   
> Thank you to my partner K for reviewing: Check out their [tumblr](https://azaraih.tumblr.com/) and their [insta](https://www.instagram.com/azaraih/)!  
>   
> See my profile for all the places I'm at, but for basics: @somonastic or just somonastic on [Tumblr](https://somonastic.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/somonastic), and [ IG ](https://www.instagram.com/somonastic/). Have a restful slumber, friend, and may you always have that one friend who will impersonate a stranger to get you the drugs that you deserve.


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